


A Midwinter's Promise

by nellii



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Courting Rituals, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier Midwinter Reserve Minibang (The Witcher), Happy Ending, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Marriage, Wild Hunt, Wild Hunt Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: The warrior leaned forward from the saddle and reached out to Jaskier with one gauntleted hand. Palm up, an invitation. He looked like winter itself, if only such a thing could be captured in the way Geralt’s gaze burned into Jaskier. Miniature snowflakes cascaded from the stormcloud brewing above them and landed in his hair, crowning him in frost. He looked as though he was meant to freeze the world over with just a snap of his fingers. And he was offering all of it to Jaskier.“Tell my story, if you wish.” Geralt spoke. “I only ask for your company. Let me show you my world.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 160





	A Midwinter's Promise

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the Geraskier Midwinter Reverse Bang! My artist, the lovely Omaano on tumblr, drew an absolutely stunning piece that this story is based on which can be seen here:
> 
> https://omaano.tumblr.com/post/644484651699912705

Jaskier brought the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip of hot cider, heated over the fire not ten minutes ago. The tart taste of apples, the spice of cinnamon, they reminded him of the apple mulled wine he and Geralt had shared on their wedding night. Their wedding night... It seemed so long ago now as he looked back on it, though it had only been a few months since his betrothed and he kissed beneath the spun silver archway in the ephemerally silver evening light of Tir ná Lia. 

“Well?” Priscilla asked eagerly, leaning forward from where she sat in her velvet cushioned chair. The common rooms of Oxenfurt were decorated with only the most lovely, most extravagant furniture, and still none of it could compare to the silken sheets that draped his birch bed frame, or the malachite gemstones dotting the arms of the chairs in his and Geralt’s wedding suite. “Are you going to tell us, now?” she prompted, and Jaskier set down his mug. 

“Where shall I start?” he asked, looking up and closing his eyes to visualize that first night, that first storm. “I was looking for a story, was all, as I often am. Except this was no story. This was destiny.” 

“Bullshit,” Valdo snorted, and Jaskier’s eyes flew open, shooting the man a sharp look. 

“Do you want to hear the tale or not? Quiet, Marx,” Jaskier reprimanded. “It’s not as though you’ll ever get married, so be silent and live vicariously through me.”

Valdo’s mouth opened and shut like a fish, then he grunted and crossed his arms, sitting back in his own chair. 

“Good. Now, the first time I saw him… no, no. Let us go just a bit further back than that. The first time I pursued the Wild Hunt.”

-

Midwinter festivity preparations were well under way in the busy city of Novigrad. Families hung oil lamps from their windows like little stars dotting the streets, and the smell of baking pies and burning cloves filled the air as Jaskier walked happily toward the Kingfisher, a lovely little tavern which served the bard free of charge so long as he kept the patrons happy with his songs. He always tried to travel this way when the air got cold. The first runny nose of the season meant it was time to return home, to Oxenfurt, where folks of his rhythm and rhyme passed the season together. He stopped where it pleased him on the way, and this winter, the Novigrad Midwinter festival pleased him greatly. 

“One sweet bun,” he requested from the baker’s daughter, who winked as she tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and turned away to retrieve his baked treat. He had declined the festive flavors, instead choosing a personal favorite, and a taste that evoked summer nostalgia at the Pankratz estate. Taking the sticky bun with one hand and passing a few coins over with the other, Jaskier thanked her and wished her a blessed Midwinter. 

“And to you too, Master Bard,” the girl blushed. 

It wasn’t like Jaskier was turning down the lovely women and gentlemen who often propositioned him to break their hearts. He was a romantic, at heart, yes - but he had yet to meet someone who ignited more than a fleeting spark of infatuation. Someone who could sustain his thirst for adventure as well as capture a piece of him, a piece so dear Jaskier didn’t dare hand it out to just anyone. 

Priscilla told him it was ridiculous to be waiting for  _ the one _ . They could be anyone, anywhere, she argued, what if Jaskier never met them at all? Perhaps it was ridiculous. But, still. Jaskier was a flirt, and a catch, but he wasn’t easy. 

Stepping into the Kingfisher, Jaskier took in a deep breath of air tinged with sweat and ale, and grinned. It smelled like a perfect night for a show. He hadn’t come across any fresh inspiration recently, so his arsenal of music was decidedly lacking, but at least he’d go to bed tonight with a belly full of beer and sweet bun. The next week when he made the trek to Oxenfurt, though, he’d have to face his peers with not a single new song nor a single new cycle. Valdo Marx would mock him  _ endlessly _ .

“Good evening, Jacob.” He slid into a seat at the bar, setting down his sweet bun and swinging his lute into his lap. 

“Jaskier!” the barkeep greeted him happily, with a bright smile as he set out a small glass of Est-Est for the man. “You’re right in time for the Midwinter festival. Coming in search of some new inspiration?”

“Exactly right.” Jaskier reached forward and took the offered glass. “It would be shameful of a bard to say he was running dry on song material but…” he gestured vaguely, and the bartender nodded in understanding.  
“If you’re looking for a story, none are more burdened with tales of glory than a _witcher_.” He pointed across the bar and Jaskier spun in his seat to follow. There, at the far end, nursing an oversized cup of ale, was a man, face hidden by a hood but wearing twin swords strapped to his back. One silver and one steel, just like in all the books and scrolls and the spoken rumors that he often heard on the road. In all of his travels, Jaskier had never seen a witcher, and all but scrambled out of his seat to approach the man, his sweet bun and Est-Est completely forgotten in favor of thrill, of intrigue.

“Good evening,” Jaskier began politely before he could burst off into his typical over-enthusiastic ramble of words. The witcher looked up, regarding him with kind yellow eyes slitted like a cat’s. The rumors all claimed that witchers were beastly and bloodthirsty, but Jaskier never subscribed to one’s first impression of things. People were much more than the words that described them. Jaskier, himself, had begun as royalty, a viscount, and was now a traveller and singer. “You wouldn’t have a second to share with a lowly bard, would you?”

The witcher blinked. “I have no business with bards at all,” he said. Now that he was facing Jaskier, he could make out dark hair tucked into a leather tie and laid over his shoulder, skin tanned and cut through with milky scars. There was frost on his shoulders and eyelashes, Jaskier noted, and thought it strange. It hadn’t been snowing outside. 

“Are you sure you don’t have a story, a word or two of inspiration from your conquests and kills?” Jaskier pressed. “I’ll write you the most wonderful song, dear witcher, and debut it at the Midwinter festival. I’ll even offer you a sum of my earnings, if the song does well.”

The witcher seemed like he wanted very much to be left alone. “Leave me be, bard. I’ve faced a hard day and just want some rest.”

“Oh?” Jaskier’s eyes brightened. “Tell me more.”

The witcher scowled, but seemed to realize the only way to get rid of the bard was to satisfy his curiosity. “Have you ever heard of the Wild Hunt, bard?” The witcher leaned in, and Jaskier in turn stepped closer, clutching his lute tighter. The witcher’s eyes became blank, as icy and cold as the frost melting on his cloak and lashes. Jaskier saw not only fear but dread behind those eyes, and had a horrible feeling he had unearthed something in the man he should not have dug up. “Spectral riders of the forgotten elven world. Wraiths dressed in steel armor made to appear as the bones of their victims. They are heralded by a snowstorm in the sky and the thunderous clapping of their steeds’ hooves. They come to our world to spread their deathly frost and turn the world to ice...At least, so the legends all say. Have you ever come face to face with a figure so much like Death he might as well have been holding a scythe against your throat, bard? Gods hope you haven’t. I have seen that in the face of a wraith of the Wild Hunt, in the hilly mountainside outside of Novigrad and north from here. Write about Death, bard, and be sure no other foolish men or women, witchers or otherwise, try to hunt down those frigid ghosts.”

Jaskier blinked. His throat felt too dry to speak, and yet something about those words lit up inside of him. In terror, yes, but also in a dangerous breed of intrigue Jaskier had never before felt. 

“Leave me be.” The witcher commanded then, flicking his hand dismissively and turning back to his drink. “Bards are known to be of the stupid sort. If you should follow the path of the Wild hunt, may their fearsome leader grant you a quick death.”

-

Naturally, with the threat of certain death looming over him, Jaskier easily decided to pursue the threat rather than hide from it. After some questioning and flirting for information, Jaskier learned of the exact path the witcher took, and followed it up and up into the heart of the woods, with nothing but a pack on his back and his lute strapped close. 

The wind chilled him nearly to the bone. He had expected cold, yes, but not quite so harrowing and deep. He was reminded more of a snowstorm than a walk through the woods. But with chill came the Wild Hunt, the subject of the bard’s watch and chase. Jaskier tipped his head up and gazed at the sky. It was muddled and thick with a dark cloud growing overhead. If he stopped and listened he could hear the distant howling of the wind- or perhaps the spectral beasts that accompanied the Wild Hunt. Jaskier should have been afraid. Maybe it was stupidity, or naivety, but Jaskier did not fear the oncoming storm. He feared the lack of a story, the lack of an adventure, but not his certain doom if he did run into the spirits and wraiths he searched for. 

The frost descended as Jaskier stepped into a crossroads cutting through the woods. Like stepping into another world, the air was quiet, the only sound his footsteps crunching on the frozen earth. He had a strange feeling, as though this was a turning point. Something out of a dream. 

Jaskier tilted his head up to the sky. The howling storm clouds he’d seen before were gone, replaced by a thick blanket of white in the sky. Snow, falling like stars.

Hooves running across the ground, the huff of a horse, the grunt of a figure in the distance. When Jaskier looked down again he felt all the breath knocked out of him. 

A figure haloed in snow, in the crisp, cool air. Riding atop a chestnut mare decorated in armor that made the both of them look like ice itself. Jaskier didn’t need a second glance to know exactly what the man atop the mare was. Jaskier had never seen the Wild Hunt before, but he knew the moment he saw him.

This was a member of the Wild Hunt.

Frozen in place, Jaskier only watched with a look of awe as the rider approached, his steed shaking her head and panting as the rider pulled to a stop beside the bard, looking down at him with a curious look. 

“Oh.” Jaskier managed, blinking. “Ah- hail and well met.”

“Strange.” The rider rumbled. “What are you doing all the way out here, bardling?”

His words were strong and sounded like a clap of thunder. Jaskier swayed. “I wanted to see you.” He answered honestly. “What are you?”

The rider laughed, and it was a warm thing, unlike the frigid air surrounding them. “You don’t know?”

“A wraith?” Jaskier guessed, and the rider shook his head. 

“A rider.” 

“Of the Wild Hunt.” 

“A smart bard, too.” The rider observed. “Geralt, leader of the Wild Hunt. And you are?”

“Jaskier, ah, student of Oxenfurt?” Jaskier shrugged slightly, unsure how exactly to match up with a leader of all things. He wanted to know so much more. Was Geralt a king? A prince? What did he hide behind that strong, stoic exterior? 

“Why don’t you fear me?” Geralt asked, a frown knitting his brow. And for whatever reason, all Jaskier could think to do was smile. 

“You haven’t killed me yet.” Jaskier shrugged. “And I don’t think you will. I’m not afraid of you like the rest of the Continent is.”

Something in that lack of fear must have changed Geralt’s view of the bard. He regarded him again, and the look in his eyes was different. Warmer, somewhat. 

“You said you came to find me. What is it you’re really searching for?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier felt no need to lie. He told the honest truth. “A story.” Jaskier murmured. “Your story. I want to see what you are, beyond the deathly omens and frost. I want to see your world and your people. I want to write about you. I want to know the truth.”

The warrior leaned forward from the saddle and reached out to Jaskier with one gauntleted hand. Palm up, an invitation. He looked like winter itself, if only such a thing could be captured in the way Geralt’s gaze burned into Jaskier. Miniature snowflakes cascaded from the stormcloud brewing above them and landed in his hair, crowning him in frost. He looked as though he was meant to freeze the world over with just a snap of his fingers. And he was offering all of it to Jaskier. 

“Tell my story, if you wish.” Geralt spoke. “I only ask for your company. Let me show you my world.” 

It was the easiest decision Jaskier had ever made. He placed his hand in Geralt’s, metal cold like ice as soon as it touched his fair skin. Jaskier gave a gentle shiver and suddenly he was being hoisted up, scooped into the man’s arms like he was some maiden in a fairytale. It was laughable, and strangely romantic, and strangely ethereal. As though from a dream. 

Geralt placed Jaskier on the saddle in front of him, strong arms bracketing Jaskier’s sides and reaching forward to grasp the reins of his steed. The mare gave a strong huff, frosted breath from her nose, feet stomping the ground in eagerness to go. To ride. Jaskier’s heart was rabbit-fast. He would be a firsthand witness to the truth of the Wild Hunt, he would ride with them, be a guest in the unearthly world of Tir Na Lia. 

“Are you ready?” Geralt mused, a rumble coming deep from his chest. 

“Yes.” Jaskier breathed out. “I’m ready.”

And they rode. 

-

“I couldn’t describe it in words.” Jaskier said, and this earned a disappointed sigh from Priscilla. She pouted, leaning forward to bat at Jaskier’s knee.

“Try for us! You can’t just come back from a realm as beautiful as that and not have any words to describe it. You were away with the Wild Hunt for months, Jask, you must have some clue how to explain it all. What was it like? How were the people?”

“Ethereal.” Jaskier sighed. “It was all- ethereal. Our bedroom was in a great castle made of something similar to marble. There was silver everywhere, even in the stables. I felt like I was living in the lap of luxury.”

“Speaking of sitting in laps and luxury, what about that husband of yours?” Priscilla pushed eagerly. “Did he spoil you? Oh, what about your first kiss?” Valdo mimed gagging and looked utterly disgusted. Priscilla looked so very dreamy. 

Jaskier hummed. “If you must know,” he began, “Geralt was an utter gentleman. I could tell he was courting me from the very beginning when we met, but he made no move on it until I did. You would think his lips to be like ice, wouldn’t you? But he tasted as warm as a summer day.”

“Disgusting.” Valdo snarked.

“Why are you even here?” Jaskier asked, and Valdo shut up. 

“Now. The romance…”

-

Their first kiss was on a balcony overlooking the gardens of the castle dedicated to the highest members of the Wild Hunt. It had been little more than a month since Geralt whisked him away and allowed him to stay in the world of the elves. For a while Jaskier had only been interested in learning as much as he could. Geralt obliged his curiosity and told him everything he asked, shown in the stables and the kitchens and the gardens and even the Wild Hunt armory, where no human had ever been before. Geralt introduced Jaskier to two of his brothers, also riders, named Eskel and Lambert. The first was a soft spoken giant, even taller than Geralt’s imposing form. He had nasty scars spanning the side of his face that he explained were from a run-in when the Hunt visited earth to warn of an upcoming battle. The Wild Hunt were omens of such events, appearing before a storm or a fallout. They didn’t bring harm, Jaskier learned, they were only warnings of it. 

Geralt started their courting with gifts. He offered Jaskier items made in their world - gemstones and materials and soft fabrics that Jaskier fawned over. In exchange Jaskier shared his music with Geralt, both old songs and new ones he was forming about the Wild Hunt. He was planning a cycle, he told Geralt, a cycle of songs that would change the reputation of the Wild Hunt. To explain to the Continent that they were not villains or demons. 

The first real hint of romance had been when they were standing together on that balcony. Jaskier turned to Geralt, and suddenly their hands were linked, and then their lips were pressed together in a warm soft kiss. It was everything Jaskier had grown to know about Geralt. Kind, soft, warm. He didn’t command anything of Jaskier, he took what Jaskier freely gave. 

The courting continued, and Jaskier stayed longer. He began to feel at home in this strange and wonderful world. 

There were more kisses, each as warm and wonderful as their first. Jaskier felt himself falling hard and fast in love with the Wild Hunt rider. 

Geralt proposed on the new moon of the fifth month Jaskier had been a guest at Tir Na Lia. Others might have said it was too quick, but for Jaskier it was something out of a fairytale. 

They wed beneath a silver archway overgrown with flowers. Geralt wore his armor, the same that he had worn when he first met Jaskier and whisked him away. Jaskier had a crown of flowers on his head, delicately placed atop his hair and matching the Elven crown Geralt wore. Geralt held Jaskier’s small hand in his as he slipped the ring onto Jaskier’s finger, and Jaskier kissed the corner of Geralt’s lips as he strung a matching ring onto the chain of Geralt’s medallion. They made their vows over Geralt’s sword, each with a hand wrapped around the hilt. They were joined, in love, in life, and Jaskier would never break the promises spoken that day. 

-

Priscilla was speechless. Valdo still looked skeptical, or like he’d swallowed a fly. Jaskier could never tell. It was clear only Priscilla believed him, but Jaskier didn’t mind. He didn’t care who believed him or not - he had his songs as proof, a full cycle of music written about the truth of the Wild Hunt, their customs and world, their people, their stories. And he had the ring on his finger. Jaskier played with it idly as he hummed and stood up. 

“That is all I have to offer tonight.” He told them apologetically. “It was truly wonderful to see you all, but I can’t keep Geralt waiting too long or he gets grumpy.”

Priscilla enveloped him in a warm hug. “Do visit again, Jaskier. And don’t forget about us while you’re off living as an Elven prince with your dreamy husband.”

When Jaskier left the grounds of Oxenfurt, his husband was waiting for him. Geralt rumbled happily as he took Jaskier’s hand and kissed right over his ring. Jaskier let out a laugh like the ringing of a bell and pulled Geralt in for a proper kiss, lips meeting in a crash of warmth despite the winter chill. 

“Are you ready to go home?” Geralt hummed.

“Yes, my love.” Jaskier nodded. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
